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

by Eva Devon

  By god that grin warmed him a way that no fire ever could. “Be careful in making such claims.”

  “Why should I?” she queried.

  “Because. . .” He leveled a cautionary gaze at her. “The bible also claims woman is the root of all evil in man.”

  She tasked then turned about, her full skirts brushing the floor. “Do I look like I could be evil?”

  “Never,” he replied. There wasn’t a touch of cruelty in Lady Imogen’s heart. He could see that. But she was the kind of woman that he should stay far, far away from him because for him, she was temptation. Temptation to let all the resolve he’d employed so ruthlessly in the last years slip. For the first time in his life, he felt a moments fear. What would happen if he fell? Would he be cast out of paradise for ever more?

  “It is getting late,” he observed. “Perhaps you can show me your managerie another time.

  A resigned sigh escaped her lips. “I thank you for your visit, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you, for being so gracious and forgiving of my frequently bad manners. And for agreeing to be my guest for an evening.”

  “I have already grown accustomed to your unique manners,” she teased. “However, without your charming invitation to your mysterious abode, I would indeed be offended.”

  He bowed his head. “Anything to make amends, my dear sassenach.”

  She laughed then stretched out her hand. “Until tomorrow night.”

  He was going to have to take it. That beautiful, slender hand. His strong fingers enveloped hers and he bent slightly over it, longing to kiss the soft skin. He drank in the faint scent of lavender, savoring the way it danced in the air around her. Then quickly, he let go her fingers and headed back the way he had come, determined to find any means possible to resist his one and only temptation.

  Chapter 9

  Imogen tugged her cloak tighter about her violet silk gown, peered out of the carriage, and nearly let her draw drop. “That can’t be real!”

  Kate rubbed her bulging belly and leaned further back against the velvet seat. “Imogen, it can’t be that grand.”

  Imogen let out a peep of protest. Kate had no idea. She was tempted to pull down the coach window, thrust out her head, and gawk like a peasant. But it was freezing outside. “It’s. . . It’s. . .”

  Kate glanced out the window and gasped. “Worthy of Mary Queen of Scots!”

  “A very silly Queen, if you ask my opinion,” Cordelia put in, now craning for her own look.

  They had decided to take two coaches. Much to the gentlemen’s dismay, Cordelia and Kate had insisted it be by gender. Imogen had been suspicious but so far the two had not made any frontal attacks regarding herself and Blackburn.

  “I don’t care what you say, Cordy,” Kate replied firmly. “Mary Queen of Scots was a tragic queen. So beautiful, so many cavaliers, so many—”

  “Idiotic political moves. Bloody hell, what was Elizabeth to do? Yes, dear cousin, please do keep openly plotting my death.” Cordelia twirled her hand. “We are most amused.”

  “She was innocent!” Kate protested.

  “Ha!” Cordy replied. “As a serpent in a nest.”

  “What about Bonnie Prince Charlie then,” Imogen suggested. “Surely it was worthy of him?”

  Cordelia shook her head. “The only Stewart of any worth was Charles II. A magnificent ruler.”

  “Who was very, very naughty,” put in Kate.

  “Too true.” Cordy grinned. “Which of course is why I adore him.”

  “Then what Scottish personage should have such a grand castle?” Cordy protested. “This. . . This. . .”

  “It’s worthy of Robert the Bruce” Cordelia sighed, her face suddenly smitten. “A warrior king. A brilliant, politician. Ruthless. And devoted to his wife.”

  Imogen pressed her nose to the icy glass pane and stared out at the castle towering over the loch. It was high on a promontory, the loch at the rear, and a bridge leading out to the castle grounds. Even in moonlight, the magnificence of a bygone era couldn’t be denied.

  The warm glow of firelight pierced the dark night from hundreds of windows and Imogen half expected to hear the ghostly tones of a solitary piper calling the clansmen to war for their bonnie prince.

  It was hard to remember that it hadn’t even been sixty years since the infamous battle of Culloden that had destroyed Scotland and brought many of its noble lineage to an end. But it was the truth. The Duke of Blackburn’s gigantic castle, winged with turrets and towers, seemed untouched, as if it should still be ruled by a great clan chief, wielding his claymore.

  Imogen shivered at the image of Duncan, kilted, a great cloak about his shoulders and a giant claymore in his hands. He was already a fierce picture. Thus, how could any woman resist such imaginings?

  “I say,” Cordy teased. “Imogen, do share your lovely fantasy.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  Kate shook her head, blond curls dancing. “You have the most sinful gleam in your eye. I wonder who you could be thinking about?”

  “Yes,” drawled Cordy. “I wonder whom.”

  Here it was. “No one in particular. Just thinking of warrior Scots.”

  “Or one particular Scot with thighs like—”

  “Stop that!” No one should be noticing Duncan’s thighs but herself. “You pay no mind to his legs. Focus on your husband’s.”

  “I do. I do,” Kate said seriously but then she let out a sigh. “But when one has a husband with such fine limbs as I do, it makes one a connoisseur. The Duke of Blackburn’s legs are among the best, and better still, his are constantly on display!”

  Imogen felt her cheeks heating. She’d touched those legs at first by accident, and then she’d brushed them when he’d taken her in his arms the other day. Frankly, she wished he could doff his kilt and that she could feel all of him. But in private. Away from her friends. For the first time that she could recall, she didn’t wish to speak of her exploits, but rather to keep them all to herself.

  “My goodness,” said Kate quietly. “You really do like him?”

  “Blackburn?” Cordy let out a dismayed groan. “Oh dear. He seems rather steely in his propriety.”

  “Are you saying he’s too good for me?” Imogen demanded, a touch more forcefully than she had intended.

  “Quite the contrary,” Cordy said quickly. “I come from a rather scandalous and openminded background. . . And well, people of his ilk, they have trouble adjusting to women like us.”

  Women like us.

  Imogen didn’t have to ask. She knew exactly what Cordy meant. They were all intelligent, wealthy, independent, and ready to let society go to the devil rather than curb their personalities. Clearly, Blackburn was just the opposite.

  If anything, he seemed to have locked half himself away in his attempt to conform. Oh how she wished she could see him break free of the prison he’d built for himself. She could only imagine how magnificent he would be.

  The coach rolled to a halt, and a liveried footman opened the door, held out his gloved hand and escorted her out into the freezing night.

  Imogen stepped down, into the icy wind, and looked ahead.

  Her breath caught.

  There in the massive, arched stone doorway stood her Highland chieftan. Outlined by candlelight, Duncan stood, shoulders squared, his verdant tartan, folded perfectly and flung over his black velvet covered shoulder. A great emerald winked in the broach that held his tartan to his jacket and matched the emerald stick pin tucked into his black silk cravat. There was no greater picture of Highland glory than the Duke of Blackburn standing in the ancient doorway of his medieval fortress.

  “Are you going to swoon?” whispered Kate.

  Imogen jerked then glanced back at her cousin. She waggled her brows. “Would you catch me?”

  “The footman would have to,” Kate teased. “My middle is too big to chance it.”

  “I can catch you,” said Cordelia. “I refuse to be daunted by my own growin
g belly.”

  And suddenly there was a blast of noise.

  Imogen had heard the pipes before, in Edinburgh at a dance, but this was different. Entirely. Somehow, by coming here, she felt as if she’d entered en entirely different world. His world. The eerie, powerful music filled the air and suddenly, she knew she was supposed to sweep down the long dark green rug laid out for their arrival and curtsy for the duke.

  So, she threw back her head, let the thrill of the music and the moonlight fill her, and promenaded forward. Just as she reached him, she met his shocking blue eyes, and lowered herself until her face was at waist level. “Your Grace.”

  He offered her his hand. “It is a pleasure to receive you.”

  As she stood, she could have sworn he actually meant it. Perhaps. Just perhaps, he did more than just desire her. Perhaps he liked her too.

  His strong hand fit perfectly around hers as he stepped back.

  “I’m not going to curtsy, Duncan” Cordelia said, “I’d topple over. But that was a fine show.”

  Kate shivered. “My goodness, it’s freezing.”

  Was it? Imogen couldn’t feel the cold at all.

  Duncan inclined his head. “Then do come in, my dear ladies, and warm yourself by my fire.”

  He gestured into the foyer and they swept in together, the door was that wide. In fact, it was clear that once, the doorway had had an iron gate.

  “Is that a murder hole?” gasped Cordelia.

  “It is indeed, duchess,” Duncan said with pride. “And you’ve a fine eye for medieval architecture.”

  “Thank you.” Cordelia craned her neck, studying the square spot in the ceiling. “I assume it’s been used.”

  Laughing softly, Duncan shook his head. “Och. It has. But not since my great grandfather’s time.”

  Imogen gaped up at the small square doorway in the ceiling. Murder hole? Goodness, what century were they in?

  “Do you have a dungeon,” asked Kate as she bustled forward.

  “I do, indeed. It is in the caverns below. Should you say ought about the haggis course, you might end up there. I have of course, already reserved a particularly damp spot for Aston.”

  A laugh bubbled from Imogen’s lips at Duncan’s surprising good humor but her laughter softened as they stepped through and came face to face with a great stair. It was unlike any of the homes she’d been in in England. There was no gold or filigree here. No plasterwork swirls. Just stone covered in the most beautiful and vibrant tapestries she’d ever seen. The stairs were so wide, she imagined that three tall men could have laid down. They headed up to a massive archway carved with faces.

  “My goodness!” Kate exclaimed. “It’s like a cathedral.”

  “You’ve the right of it,” Duncan agreed. “The faces are saints or old gods. There’s some debate.”

  “Perhaps they are one in the same,” observed Cordelia.

  “Very possible,” Duncan said. “The priests did try to eradicate the pagan ways by appropriating them.”

  Imogen, Kate, and Cordelia followed Duncan up the stairs and into a great hall. A giant Axeminster rug of burgundy and gold covered the floor. Despite the fortress like construction of the castle, this great hall glowed with warmth. Perhaps it was the two great fireplaces at either end of the long hall, each big enough for a man to stand in and wide enough to roast a whole venison. What with the crackling logs, and the chandelier overhead lit with dozens of candles. The room positively glowed with color.

  For a brief moment, Imogen could have sworn her eyes betrayed her. Lights of blue, green, red, and purple shone on the floor and walls, like light spilling through stained glass. But that couldn’t be the case. The high windows were clear glass, revealing the darkness of the night. She looked up and gasped.

  “Do you like it,” Duncan asked, his voice astonishingly soft.

  “Like it?” she repeated. “Like is not near enough the word.”

  She couldn’t tear her gaze from the glass sculpted structure high overhead and yet, she sensed that Duncan smiled.

  “My mother chose it. She sent for it all the way from Moreno.”

  “Italy?” she breathed.

  “Yes, an island near Venice. They specialize in glass.” He leaned in closer, his soft velvet evening jacket gently brushing her arm. “In fact, the daughters of the glass makers aren’t allowed to marry outside the region, lest the secrets of construction be stolen.”

  Over the years, she’s seen remarkable, beautiful, and even painfully gaudy exhibitions of wealth but this was different and it didn’t surprise her that it had been chosen by a woman. The winter days this far North were very short and the nights long, and dark. These lights filled the heart and mind with wonder. As she peered up at the chandelier, she recognized roses, irises, green stalks, and daffodils. It was a veritable feast for winter’s gloom.

  “What has he done to the ladies?” bellowed Aston from the archway. “They’re silent as stone.”

  “Clearly mesmerized them,” Hunt drawled.

  “No other reason a dower Scotsman could keep them so entranced,” added Darkwell.

  The ladies laughed.

  Duncan stared at them, clearly annoyed.

  Imogen leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “There is a good deal about you to entrance the ladies without the assistance of Herr Mesmer.”

  “Och, well.” Duncan shifted on his booted feet then coughed. “Now, a drink. Shall we all have a drink?”

  Imogen bit back a grin. Why couldn’t the man accept a compliment? It was too fun watching him bluster about after she gave him one. She had a suspicious feeling if she were to compliment his sheep or the organization of his fields, he’d handle such a comment with grace and pride. About himself? The poor man was in a dither.

  “A drink is just the thing,” Hunt said shivering.

  Aston clapped his hands against his black evening jacket. “Nearly froze my balls off, out there.”

  Duncan arched a dark, foreboding brow. “There are ladies here, Aston.”

  Heaving a sigh, Aston conceded. “I shall endeavor to elevate my vocabulary.”

  Duncan gave a nod of approval.

  Imogen was amazed. Aston didn’t generally give way to anyone, yet he had acquiesced to Duncan’s slight censure. What an interesting night this was to be.

  Cordelia clapped her hands together. “What a beautiful piano forte!”

  Duncan pulled the bell pull by the fire. “Thank you. It belongs to my sister. Whom none of you have met.”

  Aston abruptly turned away, coughing until his shoulders shook.

  “Are you alright, mon?” Duncan inquired. “You sound like a cat with a hairball.”

  Aston glanced back, his face red. “Just need that drink, old boy.”

  “It will be here any moment.” He strode over to the piano. “I don’t play but my sister plays beautifully. Trained with some of the best masters. Had a tutor from Vienna, in fact.”

  Kate crossed to her husband, and circled her hands about his waist. “I don’t suppose we might have some dancing. The baby does love to dance.”

  “Whom?” Duncan echoed, his eyes popping wide.

  “The little mite inside my wife’s belly, Blackburn,” Darkwell said, lovingly cupping the full curve of Kate’s stomach. “She loves to dance.”

  “She?” Duncan said, his voice now as strained as his eyes.

  Kate placed her hand over her husbands. “Ryder insists it is a girl.”

  Darkwell pulled Kate close and nuzzled her neck. “That’s because it is. A perfect little thing, just like you.”

  “Right then, dancing.” Duncan clapped his hands together, his discomfort at the intimate discourse ridiculously evident. “I’ll have the servants roll back the rug.”

  Aston rolled his eyes and snorted. “Good grief, man, what are we, a bunch of wilting ponces?”

  Hunt groaned. “Aston. . .”

  But Aston had already headed over to the corner of the rug, pulling it back f
rom the hardwood. He stopped and looked up. “Well, am I doing this myself or are you delicate flowers going to assist me?”

  Darkwell and Hunt grumbled but headed over to the edge of the rug and began rolling it to the other side of the room. As soon as the three Englishmen had finished, they stood arguing what to do next.

  Imogen covered her mouth with her palm, her lips twitching uncontrollably as Duncan gaped.

  His astonished face changed after a moment, to exasperation. “Och, will you not stop muttering like a group of wee old women?”

  Hunt stood, dusting his hands. “Well, we can’t just leave it here. Shall we put it in the hall? The three of us should be able. . .”

  Much like Aston, Duncan merely rolled his eyes, marched over to the now tightly rolled rug which stretched the length of the room. He bent and with a decided swish of his kilt, he hauled the rug up onto his shoulder and took it out beyond the stone archway.

  “Good god,” Darkwell drawled. “Are you one of those Scots that tosses trees about in their spare time?”

  Duncan turned back to the room and smoothed down his cravat. “Mayhap.”

  Imogen applauded. “Most impressive, Your Grace. Now, what were you saying about delicate flowers, Aston?”

  Aston was still staring at the rug carefully ensconced in the hall. “That had to have weighed a few hundred pounds.”

  “Easily,” Duncan said, “But you three were dithering about it. So. . .”

  “Dithering?” repeated Hunt.

  “Aye. Dithering.”

  “How about that dance,” Kate said brightly.

  Duncan nodded. “Which lady shall play?”

  Imogen, Kate, and Cordelia stared at each other. By all rights, one of them should have been able to play at least well enough to supply a few country dances. Imogen could play well enough to pacify her managerie, but she had no delusions about playing for company. She had horrible problems with tempo.

  “I know you play, Lady Cavendish,” Duncan said.

  She frowned. That didn’t bode well for a pleasurable evening. If she was playing, she couldn’t very well dance and she’d had every intention of kicking up her heels with her prudish Scot.