Wish Upon A Duke (The Dukes' Club Book 3)

by Eva Devon

  She glanced down at her hand. The knuckles had gone white. Goodness! The duke had moved her in a way that few men did now. Not that she didn’t enjoy a good romp. She did! But she was looking for something else these days. Still, it had been some time since she had been with a man.

  That had to be it.

  Kate clucked her tongue. “You’re going to seduce him aren’t you?”

  A smile pulled at her lips. “Christmas is coming after all. A present such as he would be most appreciated.”

  Hesitating, Kate shifted on her chair. “But do you like him?”

  Imogen laughed as an image of his scowling face came to mind. He was nothing like the men of her acquaintance. No, nothing at all. But she did like him. Despite, or because of his prickliness, she liked him extraordinarily. She wasn’t quite ready to say so aloud. Lifting her tea cup in salute, she sallied, “Only time shall tell.”

  Kathryn raised her own cup and laughed. “The poor man doesn’t know what’s going to hit him.”

  Chapter 3

  Duncan yanked off his shirt then dropped his kilt. The cold, winter breeze coming down of the snow capped ben hit his body and he drew in a fortifying breath. The sea loch that stretched all along the line of his great estate (and the line of Lady Cavendish’s land) beckoned. He strode, naked as the day he was born, into the frigid water, shivered, then let out a bellow of contentment.

  The water was horrendously cold and exactly what he needed. He plunged forward, arm over arm, stroking through the icy loch.

  The damned woman had whipped him into a right lather. Och, she was a bonnie thing, to be sure. But that was hardly reason enough to put him in such a state. It had to have been because they’d been body to body, her head delightfully pressed to his shoulder. Her curving hips had nestled quite perfectly against his cock. In fact, it was a miracle he hadn’t lost all sense at that moment, rolled her over and acted like the highlanders of old when they wanted to claim a woman.

  He took a deep breath and ducked under the water, desperate to shake the lust that had seized his body. Absolute control over his actions and responses to the temptations of this life was something he took pride in. He never over imbibed. Not in anything. He would not be like his father and leave a wake of broken hearts, debts, and a nearly destroyed clan because of his actions.

  The fact that the wee woman from the south had spoken so assuredly, so scandalously wasn’t going to have any long lasting affect on his resolve. No. A good swim would have her out of his thoughts.

  He’d said his peace. He never need see her again. If there were future problems, he’d send his factotum, Alistair, to her.

  Duncan bobbed to the surface and swiped his wet hair out of his face.

  “And here I thought I was the only man about who could stand a good freezing of the balls!”

  Duncan tensed, dropped below the water then splashed back to the surface. Who the ever lasting blazes was that? He sputtered water, blinked furiously and looked for the voice.

  “Over here, you sea monster.”

  The deep, English voice called from a little closer to the shore.

  A russet haired man waved, his golden ear ring winking in the late afternoon sun.

  Another one.

  Another Sassenach.

  Two in one day.

  Completely out of the blue! Was there an invasion transpiring? Was his castle about to be stormed? Duncan was tempted to dive back under the water and swim to the other side of the shore, but he’d not have the Englishman thinking Scots were cowards. “Who the hell are you?”

  “The Duke of Aston, my brawny fellow,” the man declared merrily. “Who the devil are you?”

  “The Duke of Blackburn. And you’re on my land.”

  “I don’t think so, old chap.”

  “You’re brain has been affected by the cold water. Clearly, you’re not as braw you’ve assumed. This is—”

  “Lady Imogen Cavendish’s bit of loch. I’ve swam it everyday for a week.”

  Duncan scowled. This asinine English oppressor was one of her guests. And he was handsome.

  Duncan growled.

  “I say,” the invader called. “You may be a duke, but you’ve the manners of a tavern devotee.”

  Duncan snorted then struck out for shore. He was not continuing this conversation until he was on dry land. But as he turned to the shore, he froze. He was on her land. How the hell had he managed that? He’d somehow swum quickly and far enough to suddenly be back upon her property.

  Och, that didn’t bode well at all. Had his thoughts of her driven his body in that direction?

  “Shall we have a drink? One duke to the other?” the duke of Aston called. “You look like a man who needs a barrel.”

  “No, thank you,” he shouted with as much restraint as he could manage.

  “No?” The English duke echoed, bobbing happily in the water as if a mystical selkie. “Now, that’s just rude.”

  Rude was he? He, the Duke of Blackburn, known far and wide for his good manners and propriety? He ground his teeth together. “Fine then. One drink.”

  “Let’s fetch our clothes and meet in the middle.”

  Duncan eyed Aston’s jovial face wondering how his day could grow any worse. Instead of giving reply, he gave a terse nod and struck out for his clothes.

  After a few minutes of swimming, pushing himself, desperate to drive any thoughts of his English neighbors from his mind, he was back on dry land, savoring the punishing feel of cold wind on his wet skin.

  “Right!” that damned Englishman hollered. “I know a pub.”

  The closest pub was a five mile walk. Nothing too serious but the sooner he could get this nonsense over the better. “My castle is closer.”

  The Duke of Aston twirled his hat which was ridiculously large, out of date, and boasted a long white feather. “Castle you say? Do you employ serving wenches there?”

  Duncan ground his teeth. Why in god’s name had he agreed to this ridiculous man’s invitation. “I do not.”

  “Pity,” Aston sighed. “My vote is still on for the pub then.”

  “If you like.”

  “We’ll work up a fine need to drink on the way.” Aston clapped his hands together in anticipation. “They also serve a mouth watering rabbit stew.”

  With rabbits poached from his land likely. Still, he didn’t mind that so much. The working people of his clan and the surrounding areas had known years of hardship. He wasn’t about to begrudge them a rabbit or two. English noblemen that poached on his land? Those he’d begrudge. It suddenly occurred to him that the Duke of Aston might be one of the idiots who’d shot birds on his land. “Do you do any hunting?”

  “Only when a butcher isn’t putting meat before me.”

  “Humph.”

  “Not very Scottish, I know. Nor English for that manner. But I don’t care to shoot things for sport,” the duke said, a grin pulling his mouth wide, exposing shockingly white teeth. “I hunt to eat when I can’t purchase what I need. . .”

  When in god’s name could that be? Pompous English lords were not known for roughing it.

  “Ah. I see the skepticism in your furrowed brow. But, I’ve eaten the strangest of animals in the strangest of lands. . .”

  “Surely, you accompany Lady Cavenidish’s guests when they go out hunting?”

  “Her guests don’t hunt, old fellow. She don’t like it, you see. She prefers sporting of a different variety.”

  The latter statement he could believe, but the former? He’d been instructed by his gamekeeper and his factotum to the contrary. “I wish I could believe you, Aston, but I’ve it on good authority that her guests do hunt. ’Tis a pity they do so despite her wishes, but when one is lax—”

  “I’ll not having you disparage Lady Cavendish. Perhaps, just perhaps, Blackburn, it could be your people who are poaching. She’s a marvelous scapegrace. An Englishwoman, who likes to make merry here in Scotland?” Aston shrugged. “Before you consider the lot of us
to be rotten, consider who gains most from birds disappearing on your land.”

  Blackburn rankled. He wanted to roar that such a suggestion was utter nonsense, that his people were utterly loyal, but hadn’t he just thought that the local pub might have his rabbits on their menu? Christ. What if Aston was right? What if his gamekeeper was protecting the poachers to boot? Lady Cavendish would indeed make an easy scape. “Perhaps we shouldn’t go on to the pub. I think I need to see my man.”

  “Balderdash. A good, stiff drink or three will put you in a splendid humor. You should never confront a problem such as Lady Cavendish without a drink.”

  Duncan arched his brow. “I thought Lady Cavendish had nothing to do with it.”

  “Ah. She didn’t, but since you’ve been speaking so ill of her, behind her back, its only fitting they you make it up to her in some way.”

  Duncan stopped in his track and groaned. “Oh, bloody hell.”

  “Come now,” Aston laughed. “I thought you were a proper gentleman and all that.”

  “No. No. Its just that this morning. . .”

  “This morning?” Aston prompted.

  “No,” Duncan said firmly picking pace back up to match Aston. “I won’t be making my apologies until I know for sure.”

  “Lady Cavendish couldn’t hurt a fly,” Aston said with absolute certainty as he strode ahead. “And any guest who did so would soon get the axe. Just so you understand why I’m so vehement. We all come here for the air, for the long walks up and down your beautiful land. I don’t think the lady even owns a gun. She has a gamekeeper but only for the management of the animals of the land.”

  It seemed ludicrous that the English would come up all the way to the furthest reaching highlands just for the air. In his experience, the English couldn’t go three hours in the country without talking about guns and sport. “Not one of you have gone hunting?”

  Aston gave a firm shake of his head, his golden earring winking in the winter light, before giving him a solid clap on the back. “Not a one, old man.”

  Black burn scowled at the familiarity. They weren’t friends.

  “I say, Blackburn, do you have a thistle up your backside?”

  Duncan pinned Aston with an incredulous stare. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, you will go on scowling.”

  He was tempted to throw up his hands and march off but they’d already covered the distance to the pub in remarkable time. Earth scented smoke wafted into the air and the welcoming lights spilled out into the already darkening landscape.

  What was so offensive about his serious nature to his neighbor and her guest? Seriousness should be praised. “A scowl is an appropriate response to your comments.”

  “Appropriate?” Aston doffed his hat as they strode in through the black oak door. “Bugger appropriate. I was well and done with appropriate when I learned that perfect people are the ones who hide the most.”

  Blackburn glanced around. He hadn’t been into the pub since he was twenty and before his father had died. “Are you suggesting?”

  “Now, don’t get your kilt in a twist, Blackburn.” Aston threw himself down onto a stool near the window, raised his hand and beckoned a buxom serving wench with a wave of his hand. “My, you are sensitive for a Scot.”

  Begrudgingly, Duncan sat across from the infuriating Englishman. “What does that mean?

  “Let’s get a drink in us.”

  In a trice, the serving wench, her dark hair piled atop her head, all the better to reveal the tops of her remarkably bountiful breasts, sauntered over and plunked down two tankards of ale. Without a blink of the eye, she bent and gave Aston a kiss on the cheek, and the damned duke, patted her bum and gave her a wink before drinking deeply of his ale.

  Duncan sat still. It was all he could do not to tell the young woman that her behavior was most scandalous and she should go home to her mother. Then again, this was a pub. Not a kirk. And he wasn’t about to offend any of the people who worked hard to earn their bread on his land.

  As the bar wench headed to another table, Duncan folded his arms over his chest. “You were saying, though I don’t even know why I’m listening to you.”

  “I’m a marvelous font of goodwill and knowledge. Everyone is drawn to me.” Aston braced his arms against the wood table, fairly overflowing with arrogance. “It’s a curse.”

  Duncan humphed before he could stop himself, scowled, then let out a sigh. Perhaps a tankard of ale was just thing. He glanced down at the frothing cup then lifted it, taking a modest swallow. Once, he’d downed tankard after tankard with the best of them, all while singing and and dancing with whatever comely lass came his way. He hesitated. “Why do you say I’m sensitive for a Scotsman. I find you offensive as any gentleman ought.”

  Aston gaped for a moment then guffawed. “Well, in my experience, Scotsmen have skins as thick as elephant hide and give as good as they get. You seem as sensitive as a Dutch tulip.”

  He slammed his tankard down so hard the table shuddered. “I am not a bloody tulip.”

  “Here, finish your drink and I’ll order us another one.” Aston pushed the tankard back up toward Duncan’s mouth then waved at the barkeep this time.

  “I don’t want another drink, mon” he growled, even as he brought the mug to his lips and took a swig of the fine, dark brew.

  “You do,” Aston countered. “A man always wants another drink when he’s as indignant as you.”

  Duncan glowered. “I haven’t finished this one.”

  “Then how about a ‘wee dram’?”

  “Whisky?” he asked, incredulous. Twinkle toed Englishmen drank Frenchified Brandy. Not God’s own nectar, whisky.

  “Is there anything finer?” Aston queried.

  He supposed that would be acceptable. “My family has been distilling it for—”

  “Good god man,” Aston groaned. “Let’s not launch into a history and genealogy of the stuff. Lets just have a drink of it.”

  Duncan felt a distinct urge to pop the English duke in the mouth. For years, he’d kept his temper in check. He’d not laid hands on a man except in a practice session since he’d become the duke. He wasn’t going to start now, but the bastard really did beg a good beating.

  The barkeep, a man of perhaps sixty, his silver hair a riot atop his head, stopped before them. “Can I help, Your Graces.”

  Duncan peered at the older man. “Angus?”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  “I have nae seen you in a decade’s time!” he was stunned at the thickness of his own brogue, but it would seem that the day had sufficiently thrown him into such a temperament that his sassenach schooling had gone by the way side. And, in truth, he’d a good mind to give up the rarified tones of the oppressors and speak as God had intended him too, Like a highlander.

  “No you have nae, Your Grace. And ’tis a right shame for we’ve missed you.”

  Duncan couldn’t stop the smile. He stood and took the man’s hand. “I’m sorry for it, but duties have made it impossible for me.”

  “Oh, aye, Your Grace.” Angus gave a humble nod before breaking into a great grin. “You’re a fine laird and there’s no questioning that. Now, His Grace, the Duke of Aston, he’s a friendly one.”

  Friendly? The arse? “Och, say it is nae so? This sassenach has seduced you with his merry ways?”

  Angus laughed. “The English mon has a devil’s tongue on him. Too true. Smooth as silver, he is, but he spends his coin and always has a good word for each one of us. If all English were like him, there never would have been time for wars. We’d all have been making merry from sun up to sun down!”

  “And all the hours between,” chimed in Aston.

  “’Tis true. ’Tis true, Your Grace.”

  Duncan could hardly believe it. The English had never been particularly welcome in this part of the highlands. For many the reason. But here Angus was, friends with the outlander. Duncan hesitated. There was a part of him that wanted to keep believing Lad
y Cavendish was Jezebel, a devil’s handmaiden, and yet, the evidence was pointing in an entirely different direction. “Angus, any of the local lads hired by Lady Cavendish this hunting season?”

  “To beat the birds, Your Grace?”

  Duncan smiled, turning to Aston ready to disprove the English bastard. “That’s right. Hired many, did she?”

  “Not a one.”

  Duncan’s smile fell. “What?”

  “Narry a lad,” Angus said easily. “She’s got them all tending to her infirmary.”

  “Infirmary,” he echoed.

  “Oh, aye.” Angus’ face softened like a father cooing over a babe. “Lady Cavendish has a right soft heart. Any wee beastie wounded in the vicinity, or not faring well, is brought to her. She nurses the wee things and has the local lads whoa re nclined give her a hand.”

  Nurses them?

  Duncan sat. All his surety quickly draining out of him. It didn’t bode at all well for his escaping an apology. “So, she’s not had any hunters at her house parties?”

  Angus shook his head. “Not as any of us has heard. The gentlemen come in for a drink and song, but then head back up to her lodge. Some of the lads take them walking.”

  “Walking?”

  “Aye. Just yesterday young Ned took the Duke of Darkwell up into the bens, searching for stags to spy upon. No guns. Just a basket of sandwiches and a flask of your own whisky.”

  Aston beamed. “You’re up to your neck in it, Blackburn. Unless, of course, you’re too big for your kilt to apologize.”

  “Why should His Grace need to apologize to any one?” Angus demanded. “He’s a right, good man.”

  “Unfortunately,” Duncan begrudged, “I made some inaccurate accusations against Lady Cavendish this morning.”

  Angus face darkened. “Ya dinna, Your Grace! She’s a favorite among the villagers.”

  “She is?” Suddenly, Duncan felt as if he’d been left completely in the dark. And perhaps it was because he’d been consumed with the larger aspects of running his estates. He hadn’t been visiting with the locals in the village for some time. He hadn’t asked for gossip because he disapproved of it. So, when reports from his gamekeeper of Lady Cavendish and her guests had reached him, he’d believed them. Why wouldn’t he? He had no high opinion of the English to start with.