The Duke's Captive

by Adele Ashworth

  She relaxed a little on the stool and sighed. “Perhaps my marriage seems rather romantic in that particular light,” she said with calculation, eyeing him directly, “but I wouldn’t say the death of my husband has been fortunate at all, sir. I don’t think losing someone close ever is.”

  “I understand,” he agreed soberly. After a pause, he grinned and attempted to lighten the mood. “I certainly hope my questions aren’t making you uncomfortable, Lady Cheshire.”

  “Not in the least,” she lied, forcing a smile as she turned her attention back to her painting. “But you have yet to answer my question.”

  He straightened a bit, pulling down on his waistcoat. “Ah, yes. The bride hunt.”

  “Is it going well?” she prompted, more inquisitive than she ought to be. From the corner of her eye she saw him lift a shoulder in a shrug.

  “At this point I believe Lady Anna is the best choice and will no doubt make a perfectly adequate wife.”

  Perfectly adequate? She cringed inside, then scolded herself for caring. “I’m certain she will, your grace. I commend you on your choice.”

  He chuckled. “Commend me on my choice?”

  She ignored that. “So, I suppose you’ve been courting her?”

  “Not especially,” he replied, amused. “Frankly, she doesn’t interest me all that much.”

  Viola paused in her brushstroke and looked at him askance. “If she doesn’t interest you, sir, why on earth would you want to marry her?”

  He continued to watch her, intensely it seemed, the humor fading from his handsome face.

  “Why does anyone marry?” he countered at last. “She comes from a long line of nobility, an excellent family with a father who will not think twice about giving her hand to me, and she brings with her a large dowry.”

  Her forehead creased a little. “You don’t even know if you enjoy her company, your grace. Wouldn’t it be advisable to at least court her for a season to see—”

  “I’m sure you know that in our class, marriage has very little to do with such trivial feelings as enjoying each other’s company,” he cut in, his tone thoughtful. “It does, however, have everything to do with lineage, heirs, and necessity.”

  And sometimes desperation . . .

  “Of course, you’re right,” she acknowledged with a nod. “And you are in need of an heir.”

  “I am, indeed. It is the most important reason for a man to marry, is it not?”

  Viola nodded once in acquiescence, then returned to her painting, trying, but hopelessly failing, to remove the image of a nude Ian Wentworth making love to the stubborn and obnoxious Anna she knew. The thought made her queasy.

  “Or did your husband marry you for love?” he asked rather nonchalantly.

  Heat suffused her, and she decided not to look at him. “I’m certain there was a great deal of duty in his decision to marry me as well, your grace.”

  “Was there?” He paused, then added, “I can’t imagine a gentleman ever growing tired of looking at you, Lady Cheshire. He must have been thoroughly content in his married life with you warming his bed night after night.”

  She fumbled the brush, inelegantly dropping it onto the palette into the yellow paint, splattering droplets onto her smock.

  Ian chuckled again at her discomfiture, then stood and began to saunter toward her. “So, how is my portrait coming along?”

  If not for the fact that he’d decided to observe her work up close, she might have been quite relieved by his easy return to the safe subject of painting. But seconds later she felt his warmth at her back, his chest nearly touching as he peered over her shoulder to view the artwork she’d so diligently created.

  “You are certainly very talented with your brushstrokes, aren’t you, Lady Cheshire,” he said rather than asked, his voice low and intimate.

  Viola pulled back a little from his overbearing closeness. “Thank you,” she mumbled, throat tight. “But perhaps it’s best if you reserve judgment until I’m finished, your grace.” She gestured to his stool with her forehead. “Please.”

  He stepped around her slightly so that he could look down at her face. She felt his eyes on her, and it took her a long moment before she managed to lift her lashes and meet his gaze.

  “I wonder if your husband admired you for your gifts as he should have,” he speculated, denying her veiled suggestion to return to his stool. “Did you satisfy him, Viola?”

  His question rendered her speechless, which he obviously expected, as his handsome mouth curved up slyly and his dark eyes narrowed.

  “I had a fascinating dream last night, a memory brought to light,” he whispered in a husky timbre, reaching up to brush a stray curl away from her cheek. “About a woman with very nimble fingers and soft, delicate, talented hands. I awoke thinking of you.”

  His intimate insinuations silenced her, and by standing so close, he all but blocked her escape. A sudden fear coursed through her. Her eyes widened and she felt a hot flush creep up her neck and into her face.

  Without hesitation, he lifted the palette from her hands, then leaned across her and placed it on the small desk at her side. When his own hands were free, he reached up and pressed his fingers gently through her loosely coiled hair until he cupped her cheeks in his palms.

  She blinked quickly several times as her pulse begin to race. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  His gaze locked with hers. “I know who you are.”

  It took ages for that statement to register. And then clarity struck her as a blow to the gut.

  She jerked back in horror, but he held her tightly in his grasp, expecting her reaction to his whispered pronouncement, refusing to release her or allow her to move.

  In an instant, his expression turned to stone. “Yes. I know who you are, Viola. And this time I’m in charge of your future. It’s time for me to take back what you stole from me, and give you what you deserve in return.”

  She started trembling. “No—Your grace—”

  His mouth closed over hers in a tantalizing, determined kiss of hardness and power. She squirmed to no avail; a quick sob of defiance tore from her throat, but he pursued her relentlessly, provocatively, forcing desire upon her until she yielded and accepted his will.

  She stilled, permitting him to take what he wanted, giving in to the madness, allowing his tongue to seek hers as he desired. She felt his need, his anger, and a cheerless passion borne of loneliness. Tears stung her eyes, not from the harshness of his demand but from her own knowledge of what he had endured at her hands, of what he so desperately wanted her to experience now. Of how much he despised her and resented all that she had become because of him.

  He softened his advance as he felt her give in to his urging. As suddenly as it had started, he pulled away.

  Viola gasped for air, shaking, squeezing her eyes shut as she felt his fast, warm breath on her skin, his gaze on her face, his hands clutching her, fingers intertwined tightly in her hair. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t look at him, but his rigid stance conveyed his rage.

  “You have taken everything from me, and yet I want you,” he murmured, his voice hard, his breathing erratic. “That is something I can’t accept.”

  “Please . . . ,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

  He relaxed his grip slightly, pulling back even more as he inhaled deeply to calm the storm within him.

  “Look at me, Viola,” he insisted, his tone low, hoarse.

  Her lashes fluttered open, her gaze locked with his, and the coldness he conveyed through those dark depths sent an icy fear through her body.

  “You cannot ruin me as I can ruin you,” he whispered. “Tomorrow night it begins. You will be at my town house for dinner at eight or I will expose you as a fraud. Is this clear?”

  Her chest constrict
ed; she felt suffocated, couldn’t breathe.

  His lips twitched. “The masquerade is over, my beautiful, clever lady. The masks come off now.”

  He released her at once, and her body fairly crumbled on the stool.

  Turning, he left her then, numbed to the core, and utterly terrified.

  Chapter Nine

  I watched him in the dark for a long time, afraid to let him know I was there. But when he started shivering from extreme cold I risked everything and went to him, lying down on the cot beside him to lend him my warmth. . . .

  She had no idea what the night would bring, though Viola felt certain she wouldn’t be eating a pleasant, relaxing dinner in his dining room. At least she doubted it, as she hadn’t been able to stomach anything since he’d left yesterday. But she would arrive just as he’d ordered, dressed fabulously in a low-cut gown of lavender satin and royal purple lace flounces, her hair adorned with pearls and piled high on her head in loose curls. He could certainly scare her with his threats, but she had always known this day might come, and she had long been prepared to counter his every move. Or so she prayed she would be able to do tonight.

  He’d lit up his home in Tarrington Square like a torch, she mused as she stared out the window of her private coach toward his beautiful dark brick home. The circular driveway curved through perfectly clipped hedges and lush flower beds before it sloped and ended at the large front doors, beside which stood two footmen in pristine livery at the ready. Seconds later, one of them opened her door and offered her his hand, and she alighted, pausing at the bottom of the stone steps to gather her wits, draw in a deep breath, and fluff her skirts for the show to come.

  And it would be a show, she concluded after a day of careful thought. She didn’t know what he wanted with her, but she suspected it would have something to do with his demanding kisses and their thoroughly undesired yet overwhelming attraction to each other. She, of course, had a prepared response to his demands, which was the sole reason she hadn’t fled the city during the night. That, and the fact that she knew without a doubt that he really could damage her reputation to the point of ruin, and believed wholeheartedly that he would if she ran. Her only consolation was knowing one or two things about him that she could use against him should she need to. Her weapons weren’t as mighty as his, she realized, but they would do nicely in battle should it come to that.

  The tall front door opened as soon as she reached the top step, and an aging butler, graying and stalwart, nodded once to her, then moved to the side to allow her to enter.

  “Good evening, Lady Cheshire. Braetham at your service,” he said prosaically. “May I take your wrap?”

  She pulled the light silk cover from her shoulders and passed it to him as her eyes scanned the foyer, its enormous chandelier lit up brilliantly, casting crystalline diamond shapes of illumination on every gold-papered wall, the rich, colorful tapestries, and the brown and gold marbled floor. By first look, Ian Wentworth had inherited well. He truly had a stunning home.

  “Follow me, please. His grace is expecting you and will meet you momentarily in the green salon.”

  “Very good,” she replied, attempting to sound regal but probably failing horribly. At least a good butler would never claim or appear to notice her discomfiture, and she suspected the Duke of Chatwin would only employ the best.

  Braetham turned to begin a silent walk down the hallway to their left, and she followed, making a conscious effort not to squeeze her hands together in her lace gloves. She tried not to gape at the view before her, his wealth so clearly obvious by the thick Persian carpeting, the wrought-iron stands which, every few feet, raised ornate golden vases filled with fresh, vibrantly colored flowers that scented the air like a lush summer garden. And this was only one hallway.

  Trepidation continued to grow as she neared the salon, knowing he was about to receive her in his grand and elegant home, not formally as the Duke of Chatwin but as the wronged man of five years ago who had cleverly ensnared her in an intricate web of deceit, shocking her with the demand to come tonight for a specific purpose yet unknown to her. But she had grown strong through the years, had conquered every storm blown her way with grace and fortitude, and she refused to allow him to destroy the life she’d built for her child because of a personal past he couldn’t overcome. Hell hath no fury like a mother scorned, and if he brought war between them, she would fight him with her claws.

  Braetham paused as he neared the end of the corridor, then reached for the handle of a door and opened it for her.

  “If you’ll wait here, madam. His grace will be with you momentarily.”

  She nodded, took three steps inside, and stopped short, dumbstruck at the sight before her.

  The green salon was a magnificent room, decorated exquisitely in rich browns and vivid greens, with tall windows spanning the north wall that looked out over a luscious, full garden, now resembling a forest at twilight. In the center of the room two matching velveteen sofas the color of emeralds faced each other, a dark tea table between them, accented by two brown leather wing chairs at each end. Floral paintings in gilded frames hung in abundance from the remaining three walls, all papered in woodland green velvet. But what made the salon so vibrant were the vases of all shapes and sizes filled with live green plants, placed on end tables, the tea table, the mantel, and even the wooden floor in enormous golden pots, all of them lending an atmosphere of botanical radiance. Truly, her mother would have fainted at the sight of such beauty.

  “This is my favorite room in the house.”

  Viola twirled around at the sound of his voice, as rich and luxurious as the salon itself, her heart suddenly racing, eyes growing wide at the sight of him.

  He stood in the doorway with stately bearing, hands clasped behind him, wearing a magnificent dinner suit of black silk on cream, his cravat of royal purple tied perfectly at his neck. His hair had been combed back to expose every plane of his hard and handsome face, now freshly shaven, his expression unreadable as he scanned her up and down.

  I know who you are. . . .

  Her mouth went dry from his thorough scrutiny, though she managed a curtsey. “Your grace.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Sir?” she replied awkwardly, her cheeks warming.

  His mouth tipped up a fraction. “The green salon.”

  “Oh.” She glanced around. “It’s . . . spectacular. I’ve never been in a room like it.”

  “Indeed. I often come to this room to think, to make the difficult decisions one must make.” Moments later, he said, “You look especially beautiful tonight, Viola.”

  She couldn’t tell if he meant that as a compliment or if his soothing words only served the purpose of intimidating her. But it didn’t matter. She was ready for him.

  “You look especially wonderful tonight as well, your grace,” she returned matter-of-factly. “I’ve never known a more handsome man in my life.”

  For a slice of a second she saw surprise flicker in his beautiful brown eyes, and then they filled with wary amusement as he began to slowly walk toward her.

  “Viola Bennington-Jones, now the lovely Lady Cheshire, how you’ve changed,” he said, his tone a deep drawl. “From plain, country miss to an elegant, sophisticated widow; from a mere sister of criminals to a defiant protector of their secrets. Here you are after all these years, beautifully dressed and standing so . . . regally in my home.”

  She swallowed, clutching her gloved hands in front of her, lifting her chin minutely in an effort to bravely hide the fact that his statement left her trembling inside. “My, you’re certainly full of compliments this evening. And a plethora of information.”

  He smirked as he neared her, fully aware of her fear and uncertainty. “Merely observations, darling.”

  She blinked at the intimacy he conveyed sarcastically in his words and manner, taking a
step away from him as he approached.

  “What do you want from me?” she whispered.

  He came to a halt in front of her, his smile fading as he skimmed her face with a dark, cold gaze. “I want what any man in my position would want from you.”

  A tremor of sheer terror sliced through her, though she managed to hold herself steady before him, her eyes flashing obstinacy. “Which position would that be tonight, your grace? Duke of Chatwin seeking conversation with his portrait artist over dinner? Or are you just a wounded soul who lives only for revenge?”

  He cocked his head to the side a little, studying her features intently. “If all I wanted was revenge, I would have come after you years ago. And you wouldn’t be standing here now.”

  She had her suspicions about that, since she didn’t think he’d known of her location until he’d hired Mr. Cafferty. But at this point such speculation on her part was irrelevant.

  “Why didn’t you admit you knew who I was at Lady Isabella’s party? You had to know I wouldn’t believe you’d not remember me.”

  “And yet my evasiveness worked, didn’t it?” he replied. “All I needed was to introduce a bit of doubt.”

  She shook her head minutely, brows furrowed. “Why did you do that? Why not let everybody know who I am and create a scandal that evening?” Before he could respond, a sudden thought occurred to her. “Unless mentioning your imprisonment causes you . . . discomfort.”

  His cheek twitched, though he never moved his gaze. “I will never be ashamed for being a victim, madam,” he countered icily. “No, my intent was to evoke your curiosity and confusion, which would keep you from leaving the city until your fears were confirmed.”